Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.

Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum LP 

(via langleav)

Monsters don’t always lurk in the shadows. Sometimes they hide in plain sight.

Belle Aurora, Raw 

(via cruzsherri)

You are more than words
and the letters that make them,
you are poetry.

midwest-monster:

broadway antique market

i bought this telegram, because it’s probably the best thing i’ve ever seen.  i’m framing it.  it cost $1.

(via well-become-silhouettes)

I will love you forever; whatever happens. Until I die and after I die, and when I find my way out of the land of the dead, I’ll drift about forever, all my atoms, until I find you again.

Phillip Pullman, The Amber Spyglass  (via larmoyante)

(via sbrinalee)

joshpeckofficiall:

talking to your friends on the internet like

(via hanakatsumi)

The oddest things hurt me. They get stuck in my head and replay over and over.

Unknown   

(via youngangel-xo)

And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.

Kiersten White, The Chaos of Stars

(via helainetieu)

(via sac0n)

(via nicevagina)

no:

thinkin bout drake.. wonderin what he up to. hope he ok

(via obamasdaughter)

I want you to tell me about every person you’ve ever been in love with. Tell me why you loved them, then tell me why they loved you. Tell me about a day in your life you didn’t think you’d live through. Tell me what the word “home” means to you and tell me in a way that I’ll know your mother’s name just by the way you describe your bed room when you were 8. See, I wanna know the first time you felt the weight of hate and if that day still trembles beneath your bones. Do you prefer to play in puddles of rain or bounce in the bellies of snow? And if you were to build a snowman, would you rip two branches from a tree to build your snowman arms? Or would you leave the snowman armless for the sake of being harmless to the tree? And if you would, would you notice how that tree weeps for you because your snowman has no arms to hug you every time you kiss him on the cheek? Do you kiss your friends on the cheek? Do you sleep beside them when they’re sad, even if it makes your lover mad? Do you think that anger is a sincere emotion or just the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain? See, I wanna know what you think of your first name. And if you often lie awake at night and imagine your mother’s joy when she spoke it for the very first time. I want you tell me all the ways you’ve been unkind. Tell me all the ways you’ve been cruel. See, I wanna know more than what you do for a living. I wanna know how much of your life you spend just giving. And if you love yourself enough to also receive sometimes. I wanna know if you bleed sometimes through other people’s wounds.

Andrea Gibson 

(via donny-tran)

(via -theuntoldstoryofemilyy)

(via nicevagina)

She dreamed about escaping. That was all she dreamed about — escape.

Paris, Texas (1984) 

(via ivank963)